BOB writes:

I grew up in working-class England and, shocking as it may seem, we had an oven. For roasting! Nearly every Sunday, we would have a Sunday “joint” with roast potatoes. My mother also boiled, horrifically so. The overdone sprouts are a source of family legend. When times were lean, we had broiled cheese and onion, or egg and chips. You could also buy broken biscuits (cookies) and something called “greens” which Mum also boiled to death. We filled up on jam and bread, always available in copious amounts.

We never ate in restaurants except for fish and chips and maybe we would go to a “cafe” at a seaside resort once or twice a year.

We have pizza joints everywhere in this town now. They are a metaphor for family breakdown. We had a renter house across the street from us for about a year and guess what was put out with their weekly garbage? Stacks of pizza boxes. They were crying out lovelessness, alienation, and estrangement. Mamma mia!

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